Chapter 23 Callahan
“For whom the Lord loveth he chasteneth, and scourgeth every son whom he receiveth.”
— Hebrews 12:6 KJV
Callahan killed the engine and sat in the silence, staring at the townhouse door as if it might swing open and absolve him on its own. Clerical collar in place, black shirt and slacks pressed—he could pass for a routine pastoral call. That was the lie he told himself, anyway. A private confession. Nothing more. His pulse hammered against the plastic disc at his throat. Nothing more, Lord, except everything he had already surrendered in pieces.
He climbed the steps and knocked.
The door opened almost at once. Dorian stood there, hair still damp, a faint sheen along his hairline catching the porch light. Loose gray sweatpants rode low on his hips; a plain white T-shirt clung to the damp skin of his chest. No smirk tonight. Just a quick flicker of eyes and a small, uncertain breath.
“I’m sorry to hear you’ve fallen ill, Dorian,” Callahan said, the rehearsed line sounding thin even to himself.
“I appreciate you making the visit, Father.”
Dorian stepped aside. Callahan crossed the threshold and took in the living room in one slow sweep: walls crowded with band posters and framed photos, shelves cluttered with odd figurines and half-burned candles. An orange loveseat faced a battered brown recliner across a scarred wooden coffee table. It felt lived-in, slightly chaotic, exactly right for the man who owned it. Callahan’s lips curved without permission. Home, he thought, and the word landed heavy.
Dorian lingered by the door, shifting his weight. The usual swagger was gone, peeled away by the safety of his own walls. Vulnerable. Precious.
“Something to drink?” Dorian asked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I, uh… don’t really know the protocol here.”
“Water would be fine. Thank you.”
A simple task might steady him. Callahan lowered himself into the recliner, running a palm over the cracked leather arm. Familiar. Like furniture he’d owned before the rectory swallowed his life. From the kitchen he heard cabinets open, the soft clink of glass. Dorian stretched for a high shelf and his shirt rode up, revealing a strip of lower back and the edge of a tattoo—small, dark letters Callahan couldn’t quite read. Heat flashed under his collar. He looked away, fixed his gaze on the crammed bookshelf instead.
Dorian returned, set the glass on the coffee table, and hovered, hands in his pockets.
“Is there… some special way in-home confessions go?” he asked.
Callahan lifted the water, took a slow sip. “I’ve only done two. One stood outside a bathroom door. The other sat behind my chair.” He paused, let the silence stretch. “Or perhaps you’d prefer to be blindfolded?”
Color flooded Dorian’s cheeks. Beautiful.
“My apologies,” Callahan murmured. “Was I wrong to assume?”
Dorian’s gaze slid away. “No. I— I have one.”
“Go fetch it. Kneel for me, and I’ll tie it.”
Dorian moved fast, nearly stumbling in his hurry. He returned with a length of satin—black on one side, red on the other—and sank to his knees in front of the recliner. Hands trembling just slightly, he offered it up. Callahan took the blindfold, leaned forward, and knotted it snugly. Dorian’s breath deepened; his fingers worried together in his lap. Cheeks dark, throat working. Satisfaction unfurled warm and low in Callahan’s chest. Such a proud man, brought to this with nothing more than suggestion.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” Callahan said softly.
“Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Dorian licked his lips. “It’s been… a while since my last confession.” His voice cracked on the last word. “I don’t even know if this counts, but I’ve been a shitty son lately. Family brunch last Monday—things got tense. Not shouting, just… cold. Saw my mom again yesterday and her smile didn’t reach her eyes. I knew it was because of me.” He swallowed hard. “I look in the mirror and all I see is my stepdad staring back. All that anger I carry—at him, at myself for turning into him anyway. I hate it.”
Callahan’s chest tightened. “Dorian—”
“Sorry.” Dorian’s head dropped. “I don’t know why I said that.”
“You’re safe here,” Callahan said. “You can speak of anything.”
“I don’t want to think about it. Not when you’re right in front of me.” A shaky half-smile curved his mouth despite the wetness on his cheeks. “Guess that brings me to envy. You saw me watching Bianca that night. Wanted to drag her off the counter the second she touched you.” The smile sharpened. “And pride—because I knew you’d come here eventually.”
Callahan leaned forward. The boy was raw, seeking distraction the way past lovers once had—pain to drown pain. He brushed a thumb across Dorian’s damp cheek. “Before we go further, I need honesty. Are you in the right headspace for this?”
Dorian’s mouth opened, closed. “I need it,” he whispered. “Please, Father.”
The plea settled hot and certain behind Callahan’s ribs. He traced Dorian’s jaw, felt the shiver that followed. “You make resistance impossible,” he said quietly. “So certain you’ll have whatever you want, you kneel with one word.” His thumb rested just beneath Dorian’s lower lip. “What would you look like with all that arrogance stripped away?”
“Fucking sexy.”
Callahan smiled despite himself; the blindfold hid it. “Your penance will address wrath and envy. I’m going to beat the sin out of you. Do you accept?”
Dorian exhaled a soft, stunned curse. “Is that a promise?”
Callahan’s grip shifted to the column of Dorian’s throat, firm enough to feel the leap of pulse. “You’ll regret the mouth on you.”
Dorian lifted his chin into the pressure. “Is that so, Father?”
“You have a desk?”
“First door on the right.”
Callahan rose, tangled fingers in Dorian’s damp hair, and guided him forward. “Walk.”
Blind, Dorian moved carefully, trusting the hand at his scalp. They reached the small office—bookshelves, cluttered desk, faint scent of paper and cedar. Callahan released him.
“How do you want me?”
“Pants off. Hands on the desk.”
Dorian obeyed with deliberate slowness, peeling the sweatpants down, bending farther than necessary, letting the fabric pool at his ankles before stepping free. He straightened, fingers teasing the waistband of soft pink straps that framed brown skin perfectly. Impudent to the last.
Callahan pressed a hand between his shoulder blades and bent him forward. “I said hands on the desk.”
Dorian caught himself with a sharp inhale. Spread out like this, every tattoo was visible—faded stick-and-pokes, bright insects, curling flowers. But the one just above the pink waistband stole Callahan’s breath: Made In Heaven in stark black script.
Lord, forgive me. Callahan bit his lip until copper bloomed. At least what remains of my vows.
“Safe word?”
“Milk.” A nervous laugh. “Long story.”
“Tell me later.” Callahan’s palm hovered over warm skin. “Ready?”
“Ready when you are, Father.” Dorian pushed back slightly, inviting.
The first slap cracked sharp across the room. Dorian jerked, a surprised laugh escaping.
“That all you got? Gonna take more than that to beat the sin out of me.”
Callahan gripped the back of his neck and pinned him down. “Grip the far edge. Let go or say your word and we stop. Understand?”
“Yes, Father.”
He started again—harder, faster, no pause for breath. Skin reddened quickly, blooming under each blow. Dorian’s laughter dissolved into gasps, then whimpers, then ragged swearing. Callahan varied angle and force, watching muscle tense and release, watching bruises begin to form. Every sound went straight to his cock. He dragged nails over tender flesh and Dorian cried out, arching.
“Is this what you pictured when you corrupted the confessional?” Callahan asked, voice rough. He yanked Dorian’s head back by the hair and delivered another searing slap. “Is this what you meant when you swore you’d come from my hand alone?”
“Yes—fuck—yes, please don’t stop—”
Callahan struck again, hardest yet. Dorian howled, body locking, but he held position. Callahan targeted the sensitive crease where thigh met ass, alternating sides until Dorian’s legs shook and his voice broke on a sob. Then it happened—Dorian’s back arched violently, a wrecked cry tearing free as he came untouched, trembling through the waves.
Callahan pressed against him, slacks against heated skin, and ground forward once, twice. Pleasure snapped white-hot down his spine. He gripped Dorian’s hips hard enough to bruise and spilled with a strangled curse, forehead dropping between sharp shoulder blades.
Breath sawing, he stepped back. Guilt arrived instantly, cold and familiar. He tugged the blindfold free. Dorian blinked against the sudden light, then buried his face in the crook of his elbow.
“You can let go now,” Callahan said gently, hand settling on a shaking shoulder. “You did well.”
Dorian released the desk, flexed stiff fingers, and pushed upright slowly. Tears tracked openly down his cheeks.
“You’re crying.”
“I’m okay,” Dorian rasped, wiping roughly at his face.
Callahan cupped his jaw, thumb sweeping away fresh tears. “You were perfect. You did so well for me.”
Dorian leaned into the touch like a man starving, fingers closing around Callahan’s wrist. His eyes fluttered shut.
Please, God, Callahan prayed silently, let me keep him.
Dorian opened his eyes, voice barely sound.
“Stay?”